I am a midwife,
tugging and pulling a gangling thread of hope out of a despairing soul.
I am Mother Fixit,
repairing old damages, hinges hanging on by a bent screw, ties that have frayed to a single thread.
I am a vessel
into which people pour their grief and anger
and as they are emptied, I am filled with choler and melancholy, a spoilt and poisonous brew.
And all I can do is to pour myself out on the altar
and let God change the swirling oily ichor into something pure...
water, perhaps, or even Cana wine. Something that